


Strawberries and Sweet Peas

by BawdryWeirdsley



Series: The Valley Chronicles [2]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Bullying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hair Braiding, M/M, Married Couple, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 21:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20785403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BawdryWeirdsley/pseuds/BawdryWeirdsley
Summary: When a bad dream disturbs Elliott, the farmer learns a little more about his life before Stardew Valley- and his insecurities.





	Strawberries and Sweet Peas

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by someone saying they can't stand Elliott because he's so pretentious. Shine on Elliott, you precious, pretentious rainbow.  
The first line is one of Elliott’s married dialogues from the game, for those of you who have never experienced the full power of paranoid fey poet husband.

“I've had this reoccurring nightmare that you gave me a buzz cut... you wouldn't ever do that to me, would you?”

Zac frowns at Elliott. “Seriously, that’s the sort of thing you dream about?”

Elliott gives him an embarrassed shrug. “The muse isn’t always a gracious visitor. Why, what do you dream about?”

Zac yawns. The sliver of sky between the curtains is beginning to grow pale, but the stars still sparkle. Perhaps he'll never grow used to keeping farmer's hours, but there were never stars like this in the city, and never a bed as cosy as the one he and Elliott share- a great overstuffed monster made of oak, with goose feather quilts handmade by some distant relative.

“Strawberries, mostly. Endless rows of strawberries that need watering. And then I wake up and it’s _ real _. Right now I see strawberries when I close my eyes.”

Elliott laughs. “You smell of them you know, the sweet scent of summer at her ripest. It nourishes the soul to gaze upon a field of strawberries. Like a bed of rubies and emeralds.”

“Rubies and emeralds that need manure,” says Zac, stretching.

Elliott frowns. “Manure is not poetic.”

“Good thing you’re poetic enough for both of us,” says Zac, giving Elliott a kiss. “Stay in bed if you want to. I’ll be in for breakfast in a couple of hours”

“I’ll cook you something scrumptious.”

Zac shakes his head. “_Scrumptious. _Who else uses words like that? You’re a treat, Ell.”

Bud bounds over to greet him as he steps out onto the porch. He’d prefer the shaggy yellow dog to sleep in the kitchen, but the monsters don’t seem to go after him. Perhaps they're put off by the smell? He's shown no talent for herding or guarding, but he's a connoisseur of the revolting, and likes to roll in his finds.

“How’s it going, boy? Dig up any strawberries? There’s some extra chow in it for you if you kill them off for me.”

In truth the sight of the thriving farm lifts his heart as it always does.

_ Who’d have thought two years back that I’d create something like this? _

The farm had been reclaimed by wild woodland when he’d arrived, and although he loves the mysterious forests in the Valley, with their gnarled trees and lush wildflowers it’s good to see the land his ancestors loved so well being farmed again.

The strawberry leaves rustle in the breeze that sweeps in off the ocean, and Zac breathes in deeply, tasting salt on his tongue. Perhaps he’ll join Elliott on his weekly walk to the beach tomorrow? It’s been a while since he took a day off and went fishing.

_ Next year I’ll have the plumbing in for the sprinklers and the place will practically farm itself. _

Bud pushes his cold nose into Zac’s hand as if to bring him back to reality.

“You’re right boy. I spent enough time dreaming my life away when I lived in the city.”

He frowns. _ Dreams_. What a strange thing for Elliott to dream! His hair was what first caught Zac’s eye. He’d been heading down to the beach after a truly terrible morning trying to decipher a recipe for fertiliser scrawled in his Grandfather’s elaborate handwriting in one of the many dusty farm ledgers. Planting a single row of parsnips had blistered Zac’s hands and left his back feeling like he’d been beaten with the hoe instead of wielding it inexpertly.

He’d thought that he was fit- He jogged every morning in the noisy city streets and rode his bike to work, but city fit was evidently very different from farm fit, and that first week had been a rude awakening. He’d spent all the money he’d started with on the seed, and had barely enough to buy food, let alone replant if the crops died. Catching fish would stop him from starving this week at least- providing he could actually catch any.

_ If the worst comes to the worst I’ll walk to the end of the pier and keep walking. _

And that was when he’d seen Elliott for the first time, his auburn hair veiling his face as he leaned on the railing of the bridge, staring down into the water. His body was long and willowy, the strands of coppery hair danced in the breeze that lifted off the water as the stream narrowed to gush beneath the bridge.

He’d never seen hair that bright or luxurious on a woman, let alone a man. And when Elliott had looked up and smiled at him he’d been smitten in an instant. With those cheekbones and the bright green eyes and his dapper red coat Elliott had seemed like the kind of guy who had poems written about him, not one who’d write them about other people, let alone some outsider with torn clothes and cave bat guts on the rusty sword he wore awkwardly at his hips. He’d never felt clumsier (or muddier) than he had during that first stilted conversation, but Elliott had been kind. One of the few who had been in the beginning. 

“It’s difficult being the outsider, isn’t it?” he’d said. “If you ever want to visit for a spot of tea or perhaps some spiceberry wine, then mine is the little shack on the tideline.”

Zac had muttered something nonsensical and hurried down to the shore where he’d knotted his fishing line so thoroughly that Willy had taken pity on him and given him an old bamboo rod to replace the splintered one he’d unearthed in the attic. Why on earth would Elliott dream he'd cut his hair off?

It troubles him that Elliott's subconscious would picture him doing anything so cruel, and continues to trouble him as he milks the cows and collects the eggs. He’d been nervous around the animals at first, but now he thinks of them as old friends, each with their own distinct personality not much different from those of humans. _ Perhaps that odd black egg will hatch this week? Elliott will be so excited. _

Prudence, his favorite hen who tends to be broody has been sitting on it, although who actually laid it is a mystery. He still has a lot to learn, but he’s getting the hang of farming even if it will never come as naturally to him as swinging a sword has.

_Who would have thought it, Zac Denby, Joja cubicle jockey has a secret talent for monster slaying? _ But even the farming seems more like instinct and not quite so much like a slow death by blisters this year. It feels less like his Grandfather’s farm now, and more like _ his _ farm. His and Elliott’s.

_ You wouldn’t ever do that to me, would you? _

“Of course I wouldn’t,” he says to Bud, who raises his ear and thumps his tail, then goes back to dozing in the sun. “Not ever.” 

* * *

Back when he’d moved into the farmhouse Elliott could make the perfect cup of coffee, but not much else. He’s improved a lot since then. He’d never require Elliott to cook for them both, but he certainly appreciates that he does.

The table is decorated with Elliott’s usual flare- spread with a fresh gingham cloth, and set with the blue-rimmed plates of his Grandmother’s that Elliott had found in the attic, and a bunch of summer spangles in an old vase.

Zac sniffs the air appreciatively. “Omelettes?”

“I do hope that you’re not bored of them, my dear.”

“Never.” And it’s true. He doesn’t know if it’s the fact that the eggs come from his own hens and the bell peppers from seeds he sowed himself, but Valley fare tastes better than any other food he’s had in his life.

He sinks into his kitchen chair with a sigh. He no longer feels sore after a morning’s work, just pleasantly tired.

“You’re dripping wet,” says Elliott, glancing over his shoulder. He’s cooking in his shirtsleeves, his hair swept back and seeing him slightly disheveled like this always pushes Zac’s buttons. Perhaps he’ll see if Elliott can be persuaded away from his writing this afternoon? 

“I had a bucket wash by the well. Manure goes even worse with breakfast than with poetry.”

Elliott smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite seem to reach his eyes.

“Perhaps manure and poetry aren’t so very far apart as I’d like to imagine.”

Zac frowns. “What do you mean?”

Elliott turns back to his cooking. “Oh! Don’t mind me, love. I’m in a peculiar mood today.”

The food is delicious as always, but Zac doesn’t enjoy it as much as usual. He keeps stealing little glances at Elliott who is reading a book and nibbling at his own omelette. 

_ How did I end up with someone as beautiful as him? _

Zac isn’t bad looking, but he’s the regular type of good-looking, like Alex, all muscles and scowls. Elliott is like a creature from another realm. _ He looks like some prince out of a fairy tale. _

He’d like to tell Elliott so, but it will come out wrong. He just doesn’t have Elliott’s skill with words. _Poems_.

“What did you mean before, when you said poetry was like manure?”

Elliott shuts his book carefully, marking his place with an elegant finger.

“I’d much rather talk about your morning, dear. Did our odd little foundling egg hatch yet?”

“No, not yet,” says Zac. “And don’t change the subject.”

“I told you, I just don’t feel myself.”

“Was it the dream? The one about me cutting your hair? You’ve never mentioned your dreams to me before.”

Elliott colours. “Of course not! I barely even remember it now.”

Zac sets down his fork. “Ell, you’re a godawful liar. I’m not going to force you to tell me what’s wrong if you’d rather not, but I’m here if you want to talk. You know that, right? I know summer is a busy time for me, but I always have time for you.”

Far from looking cheered by this, Elliott looks as if he’s about to burst into tears. “You’re always so _sweet_ to me.”

“Am...am I not meant to be?” asks Zac, bewildered. “You’re going to have to help me out here. You know I have all the sensitivity of a rock crab.”

“Whereas I’m as quivering as a cave slime.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Elliott sighs and lays the book down. “I know. It’s just...”

“What?”

“Does it bother you ever, the way I am? Do I...embarrass you?”

“What? Why on earth would you embarrass me?”

Elliott tugs at his shirtsleeves. “Well, the way I speak. I’m aware you know, how absurd I am. It’s not that I don’t understand how risible my flowery speech is to others. My _pretensions_ I suppose they think. Would that they were pretend.”

“Risible?”

“Foolish. laughable”

“Elliott, no. Why on earth would you ask that? Is this to do with that dream you had? About me shaving your head?”

Elliott toys with one of the spangles. “Noooo. Not exactly.”

Zac doesn’t know what to say. “Have I done something to make you feel like that? If I have you need to tell me what it is.”

“_You _ haven't done anything,” says Elliott. “But I can’t help but think, sometimes....”

“Elliott, what?” Zac gets up and walks around to Elliott’s side of the table. He plops himself onto the chair next to Elliott, wrestling his hands away from the flower vase to hold them in his own. “What’s bothering you? You’re going to have to tell me, because I’m not so smart with the emotional stuff.”

“Perhaps you’re the right level of emotional? They must wonder in the town how we ever ended up together.”

“I wonder every day of my life,” says Zac, giving his hands a squeeze. “You’re so clever and so beautiful and refined, and I’m...well, look at me.”

“You’re manly,” says Elliott. “Strong, capable. You slay monsters and dig dirt. You talk like a normal man, and not like...well, like I do. I know I sound odd to everyone, but it’s the way I raised. Mother was a fanciful woman, and father the worse of the two, really. I see the way the townsfolk smile at each other when I converse with them. And I know what they think of my work. The book wasn’t exactly the bestseller I hoped it would be.”

Zac brings Elliott’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “I think you’re a genius. And I love the way you talk. I could listen to you for hours, even if I’m not always sure what it is you’ve said.”

Elliott shakes his head. “There it is! What sort of wordsmith cannot make himself understood? I damn myself with these interminable linguistic flourishes!”

Zac wrestles his smile into submission. It would be a very bad time to laugh at Elliott, even fondly.

“Listen, Ell, you’re one in a billion. Who cares if people smile? Do you want to be like everyone else?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well I might be a selfish pig, but I’m glad you’re not. If I’ve made you think it...”

“You haven’t.” He shudders. “I think the dream was more ghastly because of it. You’re the only person I’ve met who doesn’t laugh at me. Even Leah thinks I’m a little moon-touched.”

“You’re not any worse than Emily. And you’re a damn sight prettier.”

It's the wrong thing to say. He can tell right away by the look on Elliott’s face. 

“Pretty. Yes, I’ve never been the epitome of masculinity.”

“You’re man enough for me. What is this, Elliott? Are you worried people are talking about us getting hitched? I didn’t think the Valley was like that.”

“Not that,” said Elliott. “It’s...I’ve never told anyone else this. It’ a silly little thing, really- but the kind of silly little thing that stays with you.”

Zac doesn’t give himself the chance to put his muddy farm boot in his mouth. Instead he strokes Elliott’s knuckles with his thumbs and listens.

“When I was a little boy I had long hair, just as I do now. It was Mother’s fancy. At school everyone used to think I was a little girl until I spoke.” he laughs ruefully. “And when I spoke it was worse still. The other boys reacted as you might imagine they did. They’d knock my books from my hands, and steal my lunches, and drop earwigs down my back, or bloody my nose.”

Zac shakes his head. “Kids can be horrible.” He’d blended in too well himself to get picked on much, and had always been one of the sporty guys who’d played Gridball alongside the worst bullies, and so he'd been safe from them, more or less.

“I think it’s brave,” he says. “That you went through that and didn’t let it change you. Braver than I was, hiding my true self.”

“I _couldn’t_ change myself,” says Elliott. “I tried sometimes, but as soon as I let my guard down it would all flood back. Every silly, overblown turn of phrase and foppish mannerism. And of course I always had my hair. Mother wouldn’t hear of me cutting it. But they took care of that for me.”

“What?” asks Zac.

Elliott nods. “There were three older boys, and they made me believe that they wanted to be friendly to me. They asked me to eat with them and join in their games, and I remember the _ relief _ I felt that I was finally normal. Usually I’d go to the library after school and lose myself in some book of adventures, but that week I had _ real _adventures. We went fishing, and we explored an old tower, and we threw stones into the sea and climbed fences to steal apples. I felt like a real rogue! That weekend the oldest of them invited me to sleep out in his garden in a little tent they'd set up. Only I never made it to the tent. After his parents had retired for the night my new friends dragged me into the trees and pushed me down into the mud. I tried to fight them, but they were stronger than me. Bigger. One of them had scissors- blunt scissors- I remember that clearly! They held me down and they clipped my hair down to the skin. Practically tore out half of it.”

Zac feels cold. “They cut off your hair? That’s _ horrible_. Did you report it?”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” says Elliott, quietly. “I was too much of a coward. I told my Mother I’d done it myself. She was fearfully angry with me, and she made me grow it back again. I didn’t much care by that point. I knew that I couldn’t change myself, so what did it matter?”

Zac can hardly talk he’s so furious. “You don’t _ need _ to change yourself. You’re perfect. Your words are perfect and your hair is perfect, and I’m proud to be your husband. You’re...”

_ Damn, I never can find the words_. He stands up, his chair squealing backwards on the tile floor.

“Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just come.”

Bud leaps around them in gleeful circles as Zac tows Elliott across the farmyard. He’s planning to pave the southern road in autumn, but for now the track that leads downhill toward Marnie’s ranch is nothing more than a parting in the thigh-high grass that bends before them with a whisper. The trees grow thickly here, maple, oak and pine. At night monsters lurk here, but during the daylight it’s perfectly safe.

He doesn’t stop until they reach the edge of the woodland. The roof of the ranch lies below them, and the lake. Beyond it is the sea.

“Zac, where are we going? I’m sorry my dear but I’m in no mood to take a stroll into town. Especially not in this ragged old shirt.”

“We’re not going into town. We’re here.”

“Here?”

Zac gestures. “_Here_.”

Elliott glances around him politely “Why are we here?”

“Because here is where the best sweet peas grow. See?”

Elliott glances dubiously at the grass where the purple flowers nod in the sea breeze. “I do see. They are rather lovely, aren’t they?”

“The second loveliest thing on this hillside after you.”

It’s a corny line, but Elliott smiles. “You’re a sweetheart to say so.”

“You’d have said it better.” He flops down into the long grass, pulling Elliott to sit down next to him.

“Zac, what are you doing?”

“Showing you what I think of my flowery, poetic Prince with his long hair.”

“What...?”

“Just trust me, Huh? And sit still. I used to date a girl who showed me how to do this, but it’s been a long time.”

Elliott tenses a little when Zac combs his fingers through the red tresses, and Zac leans in to kiss his neck.

“Relax, hon. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

His mind might not remember how the complicated plait goes, but his fingers seem to. As long as he doesn’t concentrate too hard he thinks he can do this without making one big tangle.

“Pick me some of those sweet peas, would you?” he says to Elliott. “I think I have to poke them in as I go.”

Elliott says nothing, but he reaches out to pluck a lapful of the sweet-smelling blooms. The purple petals look brighter still against Elliott’s flame red hair. He takes his time, working as gently as he can to weave the flowers into Elliott’s hair. It turns out better than he hoped it would- way better than it ever had on Carly.

“There,” he says at last. “Uh, I guess I should have brought a mirror. Or a camera. You look beyond beautiful.”

Elliott squirms round to face him. “Truly?”

“Truly. I love your hair. I love you. I worship you, you idiot.”

Elliott laughs in spite of himself. “_I worship you, you idiot_. Good title for a poem.”

”I told you I’m bad with words.”

”You’re perfection, my dear. The inspiration for all my verse.”

He kisses Zac, his lips are cool and soft and his scent of woodsmoke and cinnamon mingles with the sweet smell of the flowers. Zac can’t help but roll him over in the grass to lie on top of him. 

“Write me one later.”

“Perhaps I will,” says Elliott. “You’re the only one who reads them, but that’s not such a terrible problem to have.”

“I hope not,” says Zac. “And the rest of the world will see it one day. This is just the start, hon.”

“The Once upon a time?” asks Elliott, arching an eyebrow.

“Sure. Once upon a time there lived a Handsome Prince.”

“And a Handsome Farmer.”

“And they lived together in an enchanted cottage deep in the woods.”

“And then what happened?”

“I think it’ll be more fun if I show you,” Zac says. 

And he does.


End file.
